


Kiss With A Fist

by rissalf



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-26
Updated: 2017-05-26
Packaged: 2018-11-04 19:53:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10997847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rissalf/pseuds/rissalf
Summary: Queens need no one.





	Kiss With A Fist

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place following S3,E17.

Sirens is quiet this time of night. The kind of quiet that fills the lungs and numbs the senses, the kind that leaves one in the grip of seclusion so suffocating that every breath seems like a chore. The kind that amplifies the smallest and stillest voices in one’s mind – the ones that wield words like daggers, and know exactly where to slice the deepest. For a woman like Barbara Kean, who craves attention like a plant stretches desperately towards sunlight, the cavernous reticence of the club may as well be Hell.

It's lonely at the top. Isn't that what they say? But queens need no one. 

The raucous soiree from just a few hours prior is but a memory – the jazz band (or had it been new wave?) played its final note an hour ago; the last inebriated couple was ushered out the door shortly after. In truth, the past few evenings had been something of a blur, like a dream with shimmering lights and soft, fuzzy edges. Or perhaps that was simply a byproduct of three or four gin cocktails consumed in breakneck succession. Hardly matters. Behind the glass-topped bar, Barbara pours herself a shot of the good stuff – 16-year-old, single malt A.H. Hirsch – and begins what has become a ritual of sorts: count the cash, wipe down the bar, slip off to bed before sobriety and loathsome introspection come to crash the party.

The night’s earnings are laid out and separated into two equal piles. One for each of them. If Tabitha ever comes back for her share, that is. The first few days after their blowup, Barbara had been certain it would all pass. Tabitha would see reason, would come home, like a hungry stray returning to a saucer of warm milk and a soft bed, and all would be forgiven. But that was more than a week ago, and she’d seen nothing of her partner since.

She curses Butch Gilzean under her breath and shoves the money into the safe. It was never the idea of sharing Tabitha that soured Barbara’s tenuous relationship with Penguin’s one-time right hand. She and Tabby were free spirits, hedonists through and through – but they always came back to each other. Give and take, ebb and flow. If Tabitha wanted a man’s gregarious touch every now and then, well, Barbara wouldn’t begrudge her that. She had her own flings and flirtations, though they amounted to nothing more than one-night stands. But Butch didn’t seem to grasp the notion of the easygoing symbiosis they’d established and didn’t have the stones to simply live and let be. He had taken every opportunity to turn Tabitha against her, and finally he’d succeeded.

In fairness, nothing had been quite the same since slipping into bed – metaphorically speaking – with Edward Nygma. To say Tabitha hadn’t warmed to the alliance of convenience was perhaps an understatement. Nygma had grievously injured her, and no doubt, he deserved to rot for it. But Tabitha’s impatient drive for retribution threatened their entire future. All of Gotham was within reach, and once Nygma outlived his usefulness, Tabby could crush him under her stiletto any way she damn well pleased. Hell, Barbara would be there to witness it herself – cocktail in hand and wearing a fabulous new outfit – and spit on his corpse when all was said and done. But Jesus _fuck,_ Tabby needed to find some chill, just for a while longer.  

But fucking Butch had gotten in the way. Poisoned Tabitha’s mind with his lies, little by little, until doubt and suspicion ate away at the foundation of their relationship like acid through fine porcelain.

Fuck her. Fuck them both. Barbara tosses back her shot, the warmth spreading over her chest like the lissom fingers of a lover’s caress. Queens need no one, right?

Barbara repeats the mantra and begins to wipe down the bar, tackling a particularly stubborn water ring with vigor, pretending it’s Butch’s smug face she’s scrubbing away. She giggles at the absurdity of it, laughs until her sides hurt – until delirium and hate and unadulterated insanity choke out everything else. She revels in the sound echoing through the empty barroom, in the banishment of afflictive silence – so much so that she nearly misses the sound of heels clicking against the tile floor just outside.

The sound of a key in the lock makes her stomach clench, and for a moment she wells with the sly satisfaction that she was right. It took a little longer than predicted, but what did time matter anyway? Tabby’s come home.

The club’s dim golden lighting frames Tabitha in an empyreal glow, caressing every curve beneath her form-hugging black mini dress. She looks as though she could have been here all night, as though she were never away at all. It’s her expression, however – drawn and determined – that betrays the idyllic scenario unspooling in Barbara’s mind. Disappointment tugs her sharply back to earth; she’d hoped for something a little more contrite.

“I just came to get a few things,” Tabitha says. Gaze fixed straight ahead, she barely makes eye contact. This is a business visit, nothing more.

“Oh.” Barbara frowns and pours herself another generous drink, this one overflowing the tiny glass and spilling onto the bar. Fuck it. “You’re still pissed.”

“No shit,” Tabitha glares. She crosses the room with long, elegant strides; Barbara feels herself flush. Maybe it’s simply the warm embrace of inebriation – probably not. “And cut the pout. The simpering woe-is-me routine isn’t gonna work this time. Five minutes and I’m gone.”

Barbara’s waiting atop the bar, legs crossed and feet bare – her thigh-high boots having been discarded somewhere near the floor-to-ceiling art deco windows – when Tabitha soon emerges from the boudoir they’d once shared, true to her word. She’s holding a shoebox and a black leather jacket, making for the exit with the same determined gait with which she entered, and Barbara can’t help but scowl.

“What, no goodbye kiss?”

Tabitha sighs heavily, as if trying to summon the patience to deal with a petulant child demanding dessert before dinner, and drops her personal effects onto a nearby table. “What is it you want from me?”

“Well,” Barbara grins coyly, the bourbon definitely touching something inside as she sloshes off the bar and takes a few inelegant steps towards her former paramour, “I was thinking maybe one more for the road. You, me, a little light bondage. Maybe the strap-on closet.”

She laughs then – high and light. It’s entirely different with Tabitha – far removed from the wild-eyed act reserved for the peons. It’s soft, effervescent even, like a glass of fizzy Champagne.

Tabitha hesitates, her dark brown eyes regarding Barbara with a mixture of concern and trepidation. “That isn’t a good idea.”

“But it wouldn’t hurt,” Barbara ventures, dragging a finger languidly up the smooth skin of Tabitha’s thigh.

She exhales through clenched teeth. “I wouldn’t bet on that.”

It’s not outright denial though, and Barbara has always been one to press her luck. She closes the meager space between them and slides her hand up Tabitha’s back, pulling her into a blistering kiss. Tabitha tastes like cinnamon; she smells faintly of citrus, and Barbara cannot get enough of her. She’s missed this, missed the feral abandon of their trysts – the bruises and the cuts, the pleasure and the pain – and she wants more. She tangles her fingers in Tabitha’s hair and forces her partner’s lips apart with her tongue. Tabitha doesn’t resist; for all her steely bluster, she never could.

“I can take it,” Barbara murmurs against Tabitha’s mouth. “You know I can.”

They negotiate without words, entwined in each other – pushing, pulling, stumbling vaguely about the place, ultimately collapsing hard onto a sofa in one of the VIP alcoves flanking the bar. Their mouths collide, teeth grazing lips and bruising flesh, breath escaping in soft sighs dripping with lust and longing.

“I knew you’d come back to me,” Barbara whispers, raking her teeth over Tabitha’s earlobe. “Man like Butch is only good for only thing – and hammering a peg into a hole isn’t quite enough to _really_ satisfy.”

The offhand remark hits a raw nerve, and Tabitha pulls away at that, her long dark hair a curtain of liquid silk cascading over her shoulders as she slips off sofa. “Stop it.” She sighs and glances towards the door, mask of stoic determination slipping back into place. “You should get some sleep, and I really need to go.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I think you do,” Barbara coos, catching Tabitha by the wrist and easily tugging the woman back on top of her. “Might help you work out some of that rage that’s cunted up your judgement lately.”

Tabitha shoves her into the cushions, forearm pressed against her throat. “Fuck _you_.”

“Mmmm, that’s the spirit, Baby.” Barbara practically purrs, bright blue eyes narrowed like a cat’s as her mouth twists into a smirk.

“Don’t ‘baby’ me; I’m not in the mood, Barbara.”

She expects this to be the point where Tabitha makes her sulking exit, but she doesn’t move - her athletic thighs anchored on either side of the smaller woman – and Barbara knows she’s won.

She slides her hand between Tabitha’s legs and draws her finger down the length of her cunt, grinning with smug satisfaction. “Could have fooled me, Baby.”

Tabitha lunges, pressing her forearm against Barbara’s throat once more, then roughly thrusts her hand beneath the aquamarine satin of her dress to yank down her panties. “I said, drop the ‘Baby'.”

After a few exhilarating moments, she eases up – Barbara’s vision adrift in nebulous fog as oxygen comes flooding back. “Say please,” Barbara cackles, dizzy and half breathless, unable to resist provoking her just a little more.

It’s a fine line between hate and passion, but Barbara is shrewd enough to flounce it with dazzling precision. One doesn’t become queen by being oblivious, after all.

In an instant, she’s off the sofa and over Tabitha’s lap – dress forced up past her waist – and struggles to suppress a giddy laugh as she grips the cushions and braces for her punishment. This is what she gets off on: the abuse, the debasement, the idea of being someone’s thing. Always has. A great majority of her engagement to Jim Gordon had been spent half-hoping he’d slap a pair of cuffs on her and fuck her until she was bruised and bloodied. That, of course, proved far beyond the prowess of Missionary Jim and his virtuously vanilla appetite.

Tabitha, however, always recognized that what Barbara really needed was a firm hand and a sense of discipline, and she was more than willing to deliver. The first smack of Tabitha’s open palm against her bare ass sends a pop of fire and electricity through Barbara’s entire body, from scalp to toenails. Each strike is like flames licking her flesh and melting her bones. It’s hot, so hot, but she refuses to do anything but surrender herself to the inferno. This is what she needs; this is what she deserves.

It isn’t soft or tender. It’s penance; it’s catharsis; it’s bliss. Any sane woman would be whimpering now, but every scrape of fingernails, every tug of hair makes her scream inside for more. _Make it hurt, make it hurt, make it fucking hurt._ Because if someone’s not bleeding, then what’s the point?

“Fuck, God, please,” she moans, hot tears spilling down her cheeks as Tabitha’s hand connects with her raw backside once more. She’s lost count of how many times she’s been smacked; the welt on her ass must be quite something by now. She imagines the vibrant red and purple blooming on her alabaster flesh like an exotic rose, and shivers.

“Please, _what?”_ Tabitha rubs the reddened cheek and slowly moves towards her center, dipping her fingers into Barbara’s cunt at last. “Give you what you want? You’re too fucking spoiled.”  
  
She slides her fingers in and out with little haste, and Barbara moans at the sublime intrusion. It’s been so long; she needs this. She needs Tabitha. She needs it now.

“Please just fucking _fuck_ me,” she whines, her voice cracking with desperation.

Tabitha flips Barbara onto her back and buries her face between her partner’s legs, her tongue quick to trace steady, unyielding circles around her clitoris. Barbara trembles at the warmth, at the wetness, and tangles her fingers in Tabitha’s hair – writhing against her face, urging her to continue. It won’t take long for Barbara to come; it never did.

Never abandoning her mouthful, Tabitha eyes her lover like a condemned man devouring a final meal and grips her thighs ever tighter, nails leaving angry red crescents in their wake; Barbara arches her back, bliss so close she can taste it on her lips.

_Yes, God, fuck, fuck me, fuckmefuck-_

But Tabitha stops and slides gingerly off the sofa, and the abrupt absence of her agile tongue hits Barbara like a car smashing head-on into a granite wall.

“No, _fuck,_ I was there. You can’t-”

She grabs at Tabitha, tugging her by the wrist, desperate for her to finish.

“I told you. You’re a spoiled brat, and you’re not getting your way this time.” Tabitha’s cool tone betrays the slightest hint of jest, but she refuses to budge. “That’s your punishment.”

“Bitch,” Barbara hisses in aggravation. “Fine. I’ll finish myself.”

“You will not.” Tabitha leers at her from above, impossibly tall and strikingly commanding, the ghost of a smile lighting across her face. She gently runs her fingers through Barbara’s golden curls and then swiftly yanks her head back and leans in for a whisper. “Or I won’t be back tomorrow.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading.
> 
> [riddlelvr.tumblr.com](http://riddlelvr.tumblr.com)


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